


battlefield manners

by theMightyPen



Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Also they're VERY tired of the Youth and their romantic entanglements, Boromir and Theodred are married ok!!, F/M, Idiots in Love, M/M, Somebody Lives/Not Everyone Dies, sibling shenanigans
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-25
Updated: 2020-02-25
Packaged: 2021-02-28 02:54:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,399
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22896799
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theMightyPen/pseuds/theMightyPen
Summary: Boromir and Theodred miss many things about being young--fewer scars on their skin, their backs not constantly hurting, the ease at which they could get out of bed in the morning--but lovesickness is not one of them.Or, Boromir and Theodred live, and observe their younger family members navigating ballrooms and love alike.
Relationships: Boromir (Son of Denethor II)/Théodred, Éomer Éadig/Lothíriel, Éowyn/Faramir (Son of Denethor II)
Comments: 17
Kudos: 156





	battlefield manners

**Author's Note:**

  * For [The Summer Sword (Erranruin)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Erranruin/gifts).



> For Erran, with love.

* * *

Theodred of Rohan has never been a fan of ballrooms, nor the stuffy manners that come along with them. He is--or was, given the new peace and new High King of Gondor--built for war, for leadership, for the defense of his country. For dark times, he has often thought, and now, here in a time and place that is anything _but_ , he feels out of place.

Boromir, who meets his gaze from across the room with a smile only visible in his eyes, feels much the same, though he is better at hiding it. Years of moving through Gondorian society has given him the armor to do so, in a way that Theodred has not truly had to manage in the courts of Edoras. 

Bema, how he wishes he was there. At home. Full of ghosts though it may be, at least it is not filled with _courtiers_. Or women scheming to become Queen or Lady of the Riddermark. He knows his own allure is low--the War has not been kind to his looks, middling as they were to start with. The title of Queen still appeals to some, true, but he has managed thus far without a wife, and has even less desire for one than his councilors imagine.

Eomer, on the other hand, is a much more appetizing catch. Young, handsome, and far better tempered, it is no surprise that the women of Gondor buzz around him like flies. What _does_ irk Theodred is that they feel the need to go through him to do so. There is nothing _Eorlingas_ like so little as artifice, and Theodred can sense nothing other than it in the pretty, painted creatures that ask after his cousin’s habits, his likes and dislikes. 

“Theodred King? Sire?”

He bristles at the soft voice, turning to face yet what is surely _another_ of Eomer’s would-be prospects, only to find the princess looking back at him, clearly on edge at the obvious irritation on his face.

Lothiriel of Dol Amroth is not like the other women who have sought to use him as a bridge to Eomer. She is Boromir’s cousin--his _beloved_ cousin--to start with, and honest in the way that every lady of Boromir’s family seems to be. That is enough to lessen the low burn of annoyance he feels to a more manageable level.

“My lady?”

“Eowyn sent me to keep you company,” she admits with a small smile. “She thought you looked far too lonesome in the corner.”

Which is exactly what he had intended, as his meddlesome cousin well knows. 

“I am surprised she could tear herself away from Faramir long enough to notice I was in the same city, let alone the same room.” 

Lothiriel snorts, following his gaze to where their cousins are standing close together. _Very_ close together, something that has caused no small amount of scandal amongst the Gondorian nobles, no matter the fact that it is the week of their wedding and absolutely no one’s business but their own. 

Though Theodred could certainly do without having to witness them making moon-eyes at each other every five minutes. Faramir he has long known to be entirely lacking in propriety, but Eowyn? It is utterly unlike her. _Love_ seems to be the cause of it, but here Theodred stands, in love for fifteen years, and not acting the fool. 

“They are very well matched,” Lothiriel says, reclaiming his attention. “If a bit, ah...enthusiastic.” 

It is Theodred’s turn to snort and he can feel Boromir’s bemused look from across the room as he does so. “That is putting it mildly, my lady.” 

She shrugs. “I cannot begrudge them their happiness. Nor any other couple who finds it after such loss and pain. They will not be the last marriage to arise in the War’s wake, nor, I expect, the last marriage between Gondor and Rohan.”

Theodred does not know Lothiriel very well, but he _does_ know Boromir, and the dark tinge to his little cousin’s cheeks is not unlike his when he is flustered. Which means she is perhaps not so unlike her other country women as he imagined. Barely resisting the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose, he sighs, “My lady, if you wish to know if my cousin has any interest in a particular lady, might I suggest asking him instead of me?”

Her face flames properly now, and Theodred knows his suspicion has been right. “I--that is not what I meant!”

He cannot help but feel a bit smug at the revelation, if a little annoyed that she has played the same game as all the rest. “Is it not?”

“No,” she says, firm despite her blush, and she stares at him too resolutely for him to doubt it. “I did not seek your company to discuss hi--anything of that nature, my lord.” 

Were he more magnanimous, he might accept such a response, but he is not naturally bent towards such behavior and says instead, “Forgive me if I find that hard to believe.”

The red blush of embarrassment is giving way to a flush of anger. Interesting. He would not have thought her to have a temper. “I simply wish to know you better, as we will soon be kin. There is no one Boromir speaks so highly of as you, and there is nothing I trust more than my cousin’s good opinion.”

Ah. She is Boromir’s cousin after all, for she has hit upon one of the only things that can make him feel guilty for being ill-tempered. “He has been a good friend to me,” he admits, softening his tone in apology. “In that you are correct, my lady.” 

Seemingly recognizing his change in demeanor--and the move from a topic she clearly has little desire to discuss--Lothiriel relaxes too. “I am glad to hear it. There are so few that truly bother to know him outside his role as Captain and Steward. To know his regard is reciprocated gladdens me.”

Years of controlling his facial expression keeps the tell-tale twitch from his face. Lothiriel has no idea how deep their _regard_ for each other goes, not truly, and for that he is immeasurably grateful. 

Someone--one of her brothers, he thinks--calls for Lothiriel from the dance floor and she makes a polite, if rapid, exit towards him. Boromir sidles up to his side not long after she has gone, quirking an eyebrow at Theodred’s lingering smirk. 

“Dare I ask what is so amusing?”

“You may ask, but whether anything will come of it, I could not say.” 

Boromir rolls his eyes. “Can I assume it involves Lothiriel and her obvious discomfort after speaking with you?”

“Perhaps.”

“You are terrible,” he says, though Theodred knows the fond twitch at the corner of his mouth well enough by now not to miss it.

“I have never argued otherwise.” 

Still, little as he cares for court intrigue, _this_ might prove an amusing distraction. There is nothing he likes as well as needling Eomer about his love life--especially after the little shit taunted him, at no more than seventeen years old, about courting a woman _long_ before his “venerated” Crown Prince of a cousin. He also knows his cousin well enough to know when he _has_ taken an interest in a woman, and the way he’s been lingering around the youngest royal of the House of Dol Amroth is anything but subtle--at least to him. 

The press of Boromir’s elbow into his ribs makes him school his expression into something approaching kingly disinterest and forgo teasing Eomer...for now. 

* * *

Boromir, Steward of Gondor, Captain of the White Tower, and brother to an _extremely_ irritating bridegroom--he really _will_ throw something at Faramir one of these days, if his pesky younger brother cannot keep his more ardent attentions to Eowyn in check--is weary. Weary of many things, in fact, with the mantle of Stewardship weighing heaviest of all, but weary too of less important matters. Such as the fact that Lothiriel has been unable to meet the eyes of any members of the House of Eorl in recent days, and that Theodred will not tell him _why_. 

It is not like Lothiriel to be so reserved. Especially with Eowyn, whose friendship she won in the very early days of Faramir’s courtship of the White Lady. Her behavior with Eomer, too, confuses him, for he had thought they’d gotten on well enough the few times he has seen them interacting, both in the Rohirric encampment and in Minas Tirith’s courts. Despite his cousin’s relatively sheltered upbringing, with most of her male companions having been family or near enough to it, he had thought she at least _liked_ Eomer. Theodred though, he can understand. His beloved is not the most gentle of speech, even at the best of times. Despite the happy reason for their gathering in Minas Tirith, Theodred King does not like crowds and his temper reflects that.

Still, as he watches Lothiriel dart away from the very confused-looking Third Marshal of the Mark yet _again_ , he is more certain than ever that he is missing something. He is also doubly certain it is something trivial, but Boromir has never liked remaining in the dark on anything pertaining to someone he cares for. 

He must choose his moment wisely though--it will not do to have the curious ears of the court overhear him question Lothiriel for her odd behavior. 

Boromir finally manages to happen upon her, alone and at ease in the gardens, two days before Faramir and Eowyn’s wedding.

“Did the air not agree with you inside?” He asks, dropping down beside her on the stone bench. 

Lothiriel smiles, accepting the glass of wine he offers with ringed, delicate fingers. “The air was fine. Watching Faramir nuzzle his nose into Eowyn’s hair, however…”

Boromir groans. “He is lucky that there are so many witnesses present, else I might be tempted to strangle him in the middle of the court.”

“You would not.”

“I have considered it. At length. But alas, that would deprive Eowyn of her happiness and I am loathe to do so, even if it must come in the form of my apparently amoral little brother.”

Lothiriel giggles, tipping her head onto his shoulder. “I do not know why you are so surprised by his behavior. He has been absolutely twitterpated over her from the start! And I do not expect it to grow less noticeable after they are wed.”

Boromir grimaces, drawing another laugh from her as he does so. Sometimes it remains unsettling, seeing her so grown. Part of him will always see her as the cheerful little child that would sprint down the steps of his uncle’s castle in Dol Amroth to fling herself into his waiting arms, no matter the state of his mail. But the other, larger part of him sees the woman she has become--kind and intelligent and charming. And _not_ prone to shying away from challenges, or friends. It is this disparity that has him saying, “Are you sure that is all that ails you, cousin?”

Lothiriel arches an eyebrow at him. “What do you mean?”

“I know you to be happy for Faramir--and Eowyn--but it seems to me you have been out of sorts these past few days.”

Glass-faced his cousin has always been and glass-faced she is now as she blushes and looks away from him. “I--no, I am fine.”

Boromir sighs. “Lothiriel, I know you well enough to know a half-truth when I hear one.” 

She fidgets, twisting her glass around. “It is nothing, Boromir, truly.”

Frowning, he draws an arm around her shoulders. “Is it something Theodred said to you? I know he can be prickly, but you should not take his sharpness to heart--”

“No, I mean, yes, I--,” Lothiriel interrupts, too quickly and too high-pitched for him to believe her. “Theodred King is--was--very kind! But yes, perhaps he spoke more sharply than I am used to.” 

That is _not_ what has her so troubled. If it was, why would she feel discomfited speaking with Eowyn and Eomer as well? “Lothiriel--”

“I really have been gone too long,” she says hurriedly. “Amrothos will be looking for me--I have promised him the quadrille.”

Boromir opens his mouth to point out that Amrothos has been far too absorbed in his pursuit of Lady Benieth of Lossanarch to notice that she has been missing, but Lothiriel is gone before he can form the words. He sighs, taking a deep sip of his own wine. This was already proving to be more troublesome than he anticipated. And _still_ he remains no closer to discovering the cause of Lothiriel’s discomfort!

 _I will ask Theodred again_ , he thinks, _that old bastard will not deny me an answer this time, not if I press him_. 

Resolved, he lets himself enjoy the relative quiet of the garden--and a break from Faramir’s shameless appreciation of his betrothed a little while longer.

* * *

“Theodred! Theodred, come _quickly_!”

Sighing, Theodred drags himself to his feet. Eowyn has been unusually high-strung as her wedding has drawn closer and he wants to do nothing to draw her ire. Still, the sight that greets him is a surprising one: Eowyn has Eomer pinned to the floor, a knee pressed between his shoulder blades even as he struggles, while she brandishes a decorative pillow at him like a weapon.

“Eowyn, get _off_ \--”

“I will when you stop being an utter _blockhead_!”

Despite himself, Theodred cannot help but hide a smile behind his hand. The last time he had caught them in a position such as this, Eowyn had been eight to Eomer’s thirteen, months before his growth spurt made such a battle impossible for her to win. It is even more amusing to see them behave so now, as adults. But he cannot let Eowyn know that, lest she try the move on him as well. Instead, he leans against the doorway, arms crossed, and says, “What seems to be the trouble, then?”

“The trouble is that my brother is an absolute buffoon!”

Eomer squirms, trying to dislodge her, and goes more red-faced in the process. From the unflattering description or his sister’s continued abuse, Theodred could not say for certain. 

“That’s nothing new.”

Eomer turns his fierce glare on him now, though its intensity is somewhat lessened by half of it being hidden away by the tiled floor. “No one asked you, Theodred.” 

“Shush and tell him the stupidity you have been spewing,” orders Eowyn.

Eomer’s face bypasses red and skirts towards maroon. “No.”

“Eomer--”

“I said _no_ , Eowyn--leave it alone!”

“I shall not! Not when my _mumak_ of a brother has apparently been running around thinking he is unlovable because of a certain princess’s sudden bout of shyness!”

“Oh?” Asks Theodred. Now this _is_ something, especially considering the way Lothiriel has been avoiding them all since their rather...revealing conversation. 

Eomer finally succeeds in dislodging Eowyn, rolling out from under her knee to lie on his back on the floor. “It is not stupidity--it is the truth. I do not know what I have done to offend her, only that I _have_. I will not press my suit where it is not wanted--”

“Wise of you,” Theodred says, unable to help himself. But Bema above--fools, the both of them! He had thought Eomer to be smarter than this, and certainly better with women--surely he knew the signs, the way that little Princess Lothiriel’s eyes constantly follow him, the painfully apparent flush in her cheeks when they did speak, was not a sign of _offense_. 

Eowyn is glaring at him now, hand on her hips. “I called you here to speak some sense to him, Theodred, not to encourage his idiocy!”

“When he is less of an idiot, I will speak sense,” Theodred counters, even as Eomer shoots him a rude hand gesture from his prone position on the floor. “If he chooses to believe that it is so hopeless, hopeless it shall be.” 

He truly does not have the patience for this. Not after the War and everything that had come with it. 

“You are not helping!” Eowyn cries again, venting her spleen by kicking at Eomer’s thigh. “I thought you would help--”

“Am I not?” Asks Theodred. “That’s a pity--I suppose I must leave you to handle this…puddle of a man on your own then, Eowyn.”

Both of their faces twist--Eowyn’s into shock, Eomer’s into further displeasure--as she steps over her brother to reach for his sleeve. “Theodred, wait--”

He ducks out of her grip and hurries off down the hall, deaf to her calls for him. Let Eomer work it out on his own--idiot though his cousin may be playing at the moment, Theodred suspects he will work out the truth soon enough. That, or he will be forced to take pity on him. When the time is right. If he absolutely _must_. 

* * *

_“Theodred.”_

_“Hm?”_

_“You know something.”_

_“I know many things, Boromir, you’ll have to be more specific--ow, not the shoulder--”_

_“Just tell me this: will I want to know or is it utter nonsense?”_

_“...it’s the definition of nonsense, but you’ll want to know.”_

_“Ah. She’s in love with Eomer, then?”_

_“Keep going.”_

_“...Eomer’s in love with her?”_

_“And both are in denial of the other.”_

_“...fuck.”_

_“It is not our place to interfere,_ _mðdleóf. They’re adults, they’ll figure it out.”_

_“You do know your cousin, do you not?”_

_“...aye.”_

_“And I know mine. Safe to say, they will not figure it out.”_

_“...fine._ **_Fine_ ** _, but know I condone meddling only for you.”_

 _“I know, a'maelamin_ . _I know._ ” 

* * *

Faramir and Eowyn’s wedding is a thing of beauty, their obvious joy in one another enough to silence even the most wagging tongues about their behavior in the days leading up to it. Everyone is in good spirits, even Lothiriel, and so it is easy enough to steal her away from Erchirion and tuck her into a corner for a conversation of somewhat importance.

She knows it, too, twisting a loose strand of hair around her finger as he looks down at her. “Lothiriel--”

“Boromir, please,” she interrupts, “I--it was not my intention to speak of such a thing to Theodred King, truly. I only wanted to know him better, and--and I dare not think what he and--and Lord Eomer must think--”

“Yes, I know you do not know what Lord Eomer thinks of you, but Theodred does. As do I.”

Her eyes meet his then, wide and a little afraid in the candlelight, and Boromir knows he is right to tell her. “What?”

“Theodred only reacted to what you said in such a way because he is weary of fielding potential matches for Eomer who only speak to him with that in mind. In your case, though, I think Eomer would have thanked him for sending you his way.”

Boromir fights back a smile as he watches her process this. Befuddlement gives way to realization, realization swiftly to joy, and then she grips his hand, squeezing near enough to hurt. “You cannot mean that.”

He chuckles. “Would I lie to you?”

“No,” she says, breathless and stunned. “But oh, Boromir, what--what do I _do_?”

Valar, was he ever this young? This uncertain? Loving Theodred is as natural as breathing to him, now, and he can scarcely remember a time when he did not. But Lothiriel _is_ young, and unsure, as he must have been, once, long ago. “Talking to him might be a good start,” he teases gently, laughing anew when she swats his chest. 

She swallows, just the once, before squaring her shoulders and rising up on her tip-toes to search for Eomer in the crowd. He is easy enough to spot, after all--no man, not even Faramir, Theodred, or Aragorn himself, are as tall as him. Her smile is blindingly bright when she finds him. 

“Shall I escort you to him?” Boromir offers. It is no hardship to do so--he spies Theodred standing beside Eomer, frowning mightily at the courtier who is trying to keep his attention during Eowyn and Faramir’s bridal dance. 

“Please,” Lothiriel says. They glide through the mass of people, both managing the polite nods and acceptance of well-wishes for Faramir as they go, until--

“Ah, Lord Dervorin,” He says, stifling a smirk when the other man jumps in surprise at their quiet approach, “I am afraid I must interrupt you. My cousin and I have a matter of utmost importance--” Lothiriel’s elbow digging into his ribs nearly forces him to falter, but he continues on, “to discuss with Theodred King and Eomer Marshal.”

If there was any doubt about Eomer’s own feelings, they quickly vanish at the look of absolute longing that slides across his face when Lothiriel drops into the mandatory curtsey before Theodred. She cannot see it, of course, but Boromir and Theodred can, both managing to avoid rolling their eyes--if only just. 

Boromir misses many things about being young--the lower number of scars on his skin, his back not constantly hurting, the ease at which he could get out of bed in the morning--but this needless, lovesick confusion is _not_ one of them.

“Of course, my lord Steward!” Dervorin says in a rush. “I shall provide the King entertainment, should he require it!”

“Entertainment,” Theodred snorts, once the other man is out of earshot, “pretty damn unlikely, coming from him.”

Boromir laughs as Lothiriel presses a hand to her mouth to stifle her own amusement, but Eomer gapes at his cousin, seemingly appalled. “Theodred,” he hisses, “you should not--”

“Oh, please,” Lothiriel interrupts, gently and with a soft smile, “do not worry on my account. I have three brothers, after all, and the phrase ‘swearing like a sailor’ could have come from them and them alone.” 

The ire drains from Eomer’s expression and he looks down at her in surprise. “I--truly?”

“You have met them, have you not? Do you think they cared overmuch for sparing their little sister’s innocent ears as youths?”

That pulls a laugh from Eomer, rumbling and true, and this time Theodred does not stop himself from rolling his eyes.

 _Idiots, the both of them,_ the twist of his mouth says to Boromir, and he cannot help but agree with him. It is a relief, though, to watch Lothiriel blossom back into her usual self, bubbly and honest. Eomer, though, seems no small part befuddled by such a change. Befuddled, and _smitten_. Boromir has seen them enough on Theodred to understand what the reddened tips of his ears mean, peeking out from beneath Eomer’s long hair.

“Try to look less smug about it,” Theodred grumbles under his breath. “There’s still plenty of time for him to muck it up.” 

Boromir snorts, nudging Theodred’s shoulder with his own for this show of his usual cynicism, but apparently he isn’t wrong. The more Lothiriel edges closer, smiling and genuine, the more it begins to appear that Eomer has somehow managed to swallow his own tongue. 

“What is wrong with him?” He asks in a low murmur. “Is he usually this...ah--”

“Helpless?” Theodred answers, with an undeniable air of glee. “No. I have never seen him like this with a woman. How delightful.” 

Boromir cannot deny the funny picture they paint: Lothiriel, flushed and eager, in contrast to Eomer’s near palpable sweating. But this will not help them in their future happiness, and there is precious little he wants for his cousin _other_ than joy. 

Someone else--someone decidedly unwelcome, in fact--steps in before he can, bowing over Lothiriel’s hand before raising it to his mouth for a kiss. Theodred’s mocking amusement and Eomer’s uncharacteristic timidity vanish in nearly in identical, violent fashion as Lothiriel blinks in confusion at Lord Falassar. 

“Ah, my lady,” the miserable old _flirt_ is saying, grinning full megawatt down into her face, “there you are.” 

“Good evening, my lord,” Lothiriel answers, her irritation at being interrupted likely only plain to those who know her very well, like Boromir. “Is there something I may help you with?”

“Oh, a great _many_ things, I expect,” is the lascivious retort, accompanied by an equally inappropriate wink. Valar, he is _worse_ than Faramir, who at least when not attached had flirted within the bounds of propriety that a lady of Lothiriel’s rank demands. 

How the man hasn’t noticed how deadly still Eomer has gone behind him, Boromir cannot comprehend, but his attention is claimed by the sudden arrival of the rest of the House of Dol Amroth, all scowling to a man.

“What right does that rat bastard have to talk to Loth, eh?” Hisses Amrothos. “Always skulking about any eligible lady, like the vulture he is--”

“He is doing it to rile us,” Erchirion murmurs, though Boromir notes the tick in his jaw that belies his cousin’s otherwise calm demeanor. “Do not give him the satisfaction, Amrothos, not after last time.”

“Last time?” Asks Theodred.

“Amrothos and Falassar had a bit of a...tiff at one of Aunt Ivriniel’s parties,” Elphir answers. “Its result was a black eye, two pairs of bruised knuckles, and a pitcher of wine being dumped all over poor Lady Mithwen.” 

Lady Mithwen is an insufferable busybody, but even one such as she does not deserve such public embarrassment at the hands of two hot-headed young pups. 

“He intends to ask her to dance,” mutters Erchirion as Falassar continues to inch closer to Lothiriel, “I heard it from Arthvaethor and he has no cause to lie--”

Amrothos hisses a curse so foul that even Theodred, who speaks very little Sindarin, gives him a look of reproach. “Someone must intervene--”

“I will go, since you are clearly unable to hold your temper,” Elphir interjects. “We cannot cause such a scandal again--Father will have our balls on a platter--” 

Boromir frowns at them before a sudden chuckle from Theodred draws his attention. 

“I do not think she requires your assistance, princes.”

“What do you mean?” Amrothos nearly squawks. “She--she is our sister, Theodred King, of course we must keep her out of his slimy clutches--”

“The lady has already promised that dance to me,” Eomer’s voice is steady, confident even, all earlier nervousness gone.

Boromir doubts Lothiriel had gotten around to mentioning dancing, but the pleased delight on her face is evident as she nods and takes Eomer’s outstretched hand. “I am afraid Lord Eomer is right, Lord Falassar.” 

Falassar seemingly notices Eomer for the first time and--after taking in the much taller man’s frame and barely repressed anger--does the first wise thing he has done all evening: he takes a step back. That does not stop his irrepressible nature to be a scoundrel fully though, as he says, “Ah. I see I have been out bid--and by a lord of the Riddermark, no less!”

“Lady Lothiriel is not a trinket to be _bid_ upon,” Eomer spits, disdain clearly growing by the minute. “She can dance and speak to whom she chooses. I am lucky to be among those she would consider.”

“Bema, spare me,” Theodred groans. Boromir cannot fault him for his mild disgust--the look on Lothiriel’s face is now nothing short of _sickeningly_ love-addled. 

Boromir’s hearing is not as good as it once was, but he thinks he can just make out Lothiriel murmuring something that sounds _suspiciously_ like, “you are the only one I would consider,” before Amrothos flings an arm around his neck and then the other around a now scowling Theodred’s.

“Good old Eomer,” his moron of a cousin crows, unaware or uncaring of the irritation of his victims, “always knew he was a proper sort--”

“But how could he know of our house’s feud with Falassar’s?” Wonders Elphir, who is marginally more sensible than his youngest brother.

“We’ve mentioned it a few times--haven’t we?” Erchirion muses.

“Oh for the love of--” comes Eowyn’s voice, apparently finding the proceedings a sufficient distraction from her nauseating display with Faramir. “He is not dancing with her because of _that_ , he is dancing with her because he l--”

“--ikes and respects your father so well,” interrupts Faramir smoothly, despite still being pink in the face from his latest round of kissing his new bride.

His new bride, who now glares up at him, and shifts in a way that Boromir suspects to mean she’s just had her foot lightly trod on to stop what she’d been saying. Which, he can acknowledge, is likely for the best; Faramir knows just as well as he does that their cousins can be...somewhat irrational when it comes to the idea of their younger sister being courted. 

Still, Boromir meets Theodred’s gaze and knows, without words, that they’ve both amended their thoughts regarding Eomer and Lothiriel being idiots. They’re _all_ idiots, princes, princesses, and marshal alike. 

“I am going to take some air,” Theodred declares, pausing only to tweak the end of Eowyn’s long hair.

“I will go with you,” Boromir says. Glad as he is of Eomer and Lothiriel ceasing to be in denial about their interest in each other, it does not mean he has to _enjoy_ watching them in the first throes of young love, completely oblivious to anyone else in the room--indeed, if not in all of Gondor. 

Besides, he and Theodred have certainly earned their own time alone, even if it must be spent in quiet companionship rather than any outwardly romantic manner. They have had years to get used to doing so, after all.

* * *

The garden is mercifully quiet and empty of lovesick relatives. 

“Stop smirking,” he grouses, shoving half-heartedly at Boromir’s shoulder. “Your face might get stuck like that.” 

“There are worse expressions for it to be stuck in,” Boromir says, “and besides, you enjoy seeing them happy as much as I do.”

“At least we can rest easy in the knowledge Eomer and Lothiriel will be less obnoxious about it than Faramir and Eowyn,” Theodred concedes.

“Not a hard feat.” 

Theodred snorts. Boromir passes him a mug of mead, brought with them from Edoras for the wedding celebrations. Between that and the familiar warmth of him, sprawled comfortably on the bench beside him, Theodred feels more at home than he has in months. Years, if he is being honest. 

“I am glad they are all distracted,” he admits, quietly, because speaking of such a thing--such longing--does not come naturally to him, “if only that we might have a moment alone--truly alone--somewhere other than either of our rooms.”

Boromir hums his agreement, hand coming to rest on his in the darkness and privacy of the garden. “I am glad of it, too. Faramir was becoming nigh insufferable-- _I have scarcely seen you all week, Boromir, what do you mean you already have plans for the evening meal_ \--as if he were not wholly absorbed with Eowyn every minute they were within five feet of each other.” 

“May he always be so devoted to her--she deserves nothing less. Though they are _both_ lucky indeed to have found such a good match, in all ways.”

“Mm,” Boromir agrees, and turns to face him with the small half-smile that never fails to set Theodred’s pulse racing. “Though they must forgive me for thinking of us as the truly lucky ones.”

Theodred can feel the blush creeping up his neck and is grateful for the dark, though Boromir knows him too well to not be aware of its existence. “You are a miserable old sap, Boromir.”

“Yes,” he says, far too smug, “but I’m _your_ miserable old sap.” 

Theodred pinches his thigh, earning a chuckle. Bema, they are _both_ miserable old saps--but he cannot be anything other than grateful for it. Thankful for it, for Boromir, even after so many years and so little time truly together like this--alone and unwatched.

 _And happy_ , he thinks, twisting his fingers into the curls at the nape of Boromir’s neck, _that, too_. 

No matter what changes lie ahead of them--his Kingship, Boromir’s role as Steward, managing yet _another_ wedding between beloved-if-idiotic family members--that, Theodred knows, will not alter.

* * *

**Author's Note:**

> Anyone else get emo about the insane amount of gay uncle energy these two radiate?? No? Just me?? (They're SO tired, they just want to rest and be alone with each other for like 5 seconds but INSTEAD they have to help arrange two huge diplomatic weddings and help run their war-ravaged countries, ffs.) 
> 
> (Also Faramir and Eowyn are definitely That Couple who cannot keep their hands to themselves, I will not accept critique on this. Eomer and Lothiriel, by contrast, are much more subdued but still too much for poor Boromir and Theodred to deal with. They do love them, though.)


End file.
